This is the story I am writing for the Unicorn Bell Blog
The A Picture Paints 1,000 Words Blogfest is running from 26th to 28th March. I selected this image.
The story has begun
The proceeds of wide profit margins and boundless immorality became indiscriminately fair when it lay as a cloud of dense pollution over the nineteen districts of the city. Everywhere, it wheezed the same noxious breath.
Heavy straps tighten their grip in my mind, I grieve.
There were no soft showers to refresh the streets, nor were they troubled by tempestuous storms. In the city of See, the patter of droplets were magnified by fizzing hisses as each sizzling sting released an acrid stench.The droplets burned through thick materials only degrees faster than it speared the thin.
Fountains of misery flood me but the drops do not disturb my vision, I cry.
The dense cloud would not lift it dripped persistent brownish liquid into the water basin. It flowed through every tap. Steam rose when the water was boiled. Smoke drifted when the people washed in it.
Warm with a confidence that cannot be shattered by pricks of doubt, I trust.
Only the foolish, those weary of the times, or any who were rich enough to be bemused by drugs, blundered out into danger without protective suits. The clothes manufactured to keep the toxins out make each glance or touch, the essence of all human contact, meaningless and brief.
Uncaring and disinterested hatred is not painted in stillness, I love.
The people of the See were new formed. Each malformed feature reflected in mirrors and in the darkness of eachother’s eyes became an uncomfortable likeness. They were shaped by carelessness and knowledge that reached no further than the end of their hopeful day.
My care falls with the sun, and it is haloed in moonlight, I wait.
Necessity and need drove them and they hurried as they had before. Only now the scrape of bone on bone, sticks on stones, and the rattle and hacking coughs provided the city with its discordant score.
Uncrushed, contentment rings its own satisfaction, I listen.
They looked for scientific answers to the blunders they had created. With a trinity of biology, chemistry and genetics, their's became molecular worship.
The nurse stood to one side, her lilac scrubs were streaked with blood. Her thin plastic gloves were crimson from fingertips to her palms where the colour ended abruptly like a tidal mark. “Dr Merase?”
From the moment he stared up from behind the piles of books, he examined his assistant and began to formulate several hypotheses. Pale, short body, long arms, a blue-ish glow emanated from his processor but the light did Nurse Backman no favours. “What is it? Is the specimen delivered?”
Markkus Merase saw the movement. It alarmed him. The way she shuffled when movement irritated her joints and increased the chronic pain she suffered alerted him to the fact that he was not going to like what she was about to say. A death, probably the infant. “What? Report!”
Thought I'd share this with you. I have it on repeat while I'm writing. I'm lovin' this song but... it might be slowing me down. :)
WHAT SONGS OR MUSIC IS INSPIRING YOU?